Fallen Devotion
by Adrienne Florian
Summary: What /would/ Grantaire do to protect his golden statue? Comments are encouraged with milk and cookies :o)


Disclaimer: The dear boys belong to Victor Hugo, may he rest in peace and not be disturbed by whatever I do with (or to) them. The first names of Marcelin, Francois, and Etienne were Manon Goutal's brilliant idea. Alexandre and Laurent were mine. Claudette Prouvaire, Claude to her friends, is entirely a creation of my own mind (be afraid :oP). I'm not making money off this, nor do I want to. I have nothing. Have mercy on me. Archivists: Feel free to post this on your site, just let me know  
  
  
Fallen Devotion  
Adrienne Florian (claudeprouvaire@jahoopa.com)  
  
Alexandre Feuilly ran through the streets of Saint Michel, heedless of the irritated pedestrians that scattered in his wake. Reaching his destination, he loped up the steps two and three at a time to the top floor. Arriving at the door at the end of the hall, panting and breathless, he knocked. He leaned against the wall, trying desperately to catch his breath before pounding on the door again.  
  
"Mam'selle Prouvaire! Claude, it's Feuilly, please answer!" He fought the feelings of dread welling up inside him as he waited for an answer from within.  
  
Finally the door opened, revealing a young woman in her early twenties, her long brown hair tied back tightly. Though it was still fairly early, she had been preparing to go to bed, as was evident by the white dress she wore.  
  
"Feuilly!" Her momentary surprise evaporated as she took in his distressed appearance. She immediately sobered. "What's happened?"  
  
"It's Grantaire. He's at Musain now, it was the closest place to bring him. Joly's there now, he's doing what he can, but..." Feuilly shrugged helplessly. "He asked for you."  
  
Claudette Prouvaire, the only female medical student at La Sorbonne and a good friend of all three men, didn't hesitate an instant. Not bothering with a shawl against the chill of the night air, she closed and locked the door of the flat behind her. Her cousin Jehan wasn't home; undoubtedly he was also at le Café Musain with Joly and...Grantaire.  
  
She raced with Feuilly toward Musain, her mind whirling. What could have happened to Grantaire that Joly couldn't handle alone? She shivered as unwelcome images flooded her mind and redoubled her pace.  
  
  
Le Café Musain was nearly deserted, save for a group of white-faced students, huddled silently around a table awaiting news on the status of their friend. Etienne Combeferre stared at the table, a half-full glass of wine in front of him, far more subdued than he normally would be. Jean Prouvaire, Claude's cousin, looking pale and stricken as he gazed, unseeing, at the ceiling. René Courfeyrac, solemn as he stood stiffly behind the slumped form of Lesgles de Meaux. Bossuet seemed somehow incomplete without the cheerful Joly at his side.   
  
The group looked up dully as Claude and Feuilly burst through the door; no reaction showed on their stricken faces.   
  
Forcing her pounding heart to slow, she wasted no time with pleasantries. "Where?" she demanded. Combeferre looked up at her and pointed silently to the back room. Wasting no more time, she ran through the door and the brief passageway before emerging into the forbidden back room of le Café Musain.  
  
The room was filled with pain and the scent of blood. Dimly, Claude could make out a figure lying motionless on a table, another standing over him. Joly looked up at her entrance.  
  
"Claude, thank God..." he said with relief, his voice ragged. Claude approached him and looked at Grantaire; his face was pale in the candlelight, covered with a sheen of sweat. His eyes were closed. She reached out a hand to touch his forehead, to reassure herself he was still living, and started. He was burning hot to the touch. Joly moved the candle to Grantaire's abdomen, shedding light on the bloodstained bandages around his midsection. There was blood on his clothes. She looked up at Joly, stricken. "Laurent, what...happened to him?"  
  
Joly swallowed. "He was shot," he answered, his voice trembling. "I've only just managed to stop the bleeding, but I didn't want to attempt to take it out without someone else here to help me," he continued, setting down the candle and washing his hands in a basin of red-stained water.  
  
Claude was horrified. "It's still in there? For how long?" Joly just shook his head. Ignoring the cold chill that crept through her at the look in his eyes, she hurriedly rolled up her sleeves and rinsed her hands in the basin; again she looked over Grantaire's still form. His life was in their hands, and she was not going to let him die.  
  
They worked in silence; words weren't necessary. What one needed, the other provided without being asked. Claude's hands were in place before Joly asked, Joly pressing a cloth over the wound before Claude even looked in his direction. The unlikely pair worked slowly and smoothly; their instructors would have been proud. Neither of them spared a moment's concentration to lean back, relax, or check the time. Minutes could have passed, or days. The only sounds coming from the dim room were quiet gasps from the wounded man on the table. Each time he made a sound, a murmur of pain, either Claude or Joly would pause a moment to lay a comforting hand on his forehead, in quiet reassurance, before returning to their work.  
  
Finally, Joly stood and stepped back, closing his eyes. Claude poured a stream of fairly clean water over the wound before setting the empty basin down. She looked over the prone form at her fellow life-saver; Joly turned to look back at her. He was too tired to smile fully, but the flicker that passed over his lips was smile enough, joined with the look of relief in his eyes. Silently, they clasped hands slick with blood, each congratulating the other. Francois Grantaire would live, because of their partnership.  
  
Claude picked up a blood-soaked cloth and looked at it briefly before letting it fall to the table. Joly dropped wearily into a chair, dark eyes solemn as he looked up at her.  
  
"He almost didn't make it," he said quietly. Claude closed her eyes and nodded, silently clasping his shoulder. Joly smiled tiredly at her,accepting the comforting grip as he slumped in his chair, rubbing the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead. Claude passed him a slightly cleaner scrap of cloth which he accepted gratefully, cleaning off his hands.   
  
She ignored her own rather gory state. "I'll go tell them." She laid a hand on his shoulder briefly, leaving a smear of blood, before exiting the dark room.   
  
The crowd of students remained much as it had been when she'd first disappeared into the back room, with one addition: Enjolras had joined them, speaking quietly with Combeferre. If he'd been anyone else, his expression would have been called worry. He glanced up and immediately straightened. Standing slightly apart from the others, hands behind his back, he watched her emotionlessly. As her eyes went to him he looked away, stolidly avoiding her gaze. Claude felt a flush of anger at his evasion; he would never shoot Grantaire, she knew that well enough, but she knew that Grantaire's injury had something to do with him.  
  
Feuilly looked up and spotted her next. He paled; her dress, her hands, were red. They had been white when she'd first gone back. He swallowed and stepped forward hesitantly.  
  
"Claude...is Grantaire--" He couldn't finish the question, for fear of the answer.  
  
"He'll be all right," she said quietly. "We've managed to stop the bleeding and dress the wound. As long as he rests for a few days, he'll be all right." She ran a hand through her flyaway hair and shivered. All the heat from the three tense bodies in the back room, combined with the heat and smoke from the candles, had kept her warm until now. The blood on her dress was turning cold. She walked unsteadily to a chair, shaking with the sudden chill; Combeferre immediately rose to support her as she sat, draping his coat around her trembling shoulders. Feuilly closed his eyes in quiet relief.  
  
"Thank God..." The others relaxed, sighing in relief; a few even smiled, lightening the dark mood. Grantaire was a drunkard, and a cynic, but they were relieved he was alive. Despite Enjolras' animosity toward him, he was well-liked among Les Amis.  
  
"Claude," came a quiet voice, still laced with worry. She looked up to meet Bossuet's eyes, filled with anxiety about not only Grantaire, but someone else. "Is Laurent -- "  
  
"He's fine. He's back there. Maybe you should go see him; it was-uncertain for awhile," she replied. Thanking her with a taut smile, he rose and quickly went through the passage to the back room. The others remained around her, all bursting with questions and hesitant to ask them. Someone set a glass of brandy in front of her, which she drank gratefully. Finally Combeferre managed to speak.  
  
"Was the bullet-still there?" She nodded.  
"Yes, it was difficult getting it out. We weren't-for awhile, we weren't sure he was going to make it," she said, choosing her words carefully. They had never been sure Grantaire would survive, but they didn't need to know that. Thinking about how close it had been, she set her glass down sharply.  
  
"What happened?" she demanded, looking around the circle. The others looked at her, then at one another, deliberating silently. One by one, each pair of eyes turned to one man, standing separate from the concerned group surrounding her. She followed their joined gazes, then rose, Combeferre's coat slipping from her shoulders. Her dress was still stained red with Grantaire's blood, her hands coated with it. It contrasted sharply with her white skin to give her an almost unearthly appearance as she advanced upon him slowly.  
  
"Enjolras."   
  
Her quiet statement, as if confirming something she'd known all along, made him flinch. Barely. But flinch nonetheless. He glanced at her, looking away immediately as he opened his mouth, on the verge of saying something. He apparently thought better of it; abruptly, he turned and strode out of the café. Had anyone been close enough as he passed through the door, they could have discerned the barest whisper, hardly more than a breath, escape him: "Damned fool..."  
  
Claude glared after him. "Stubborn, arrogant bastard," she said quietly into the silence. She whirled back to the rest of them, her angry expression softening only slightly as she looked them over. "What happened?" she demanded again, more aggressively. The others looked at Combeferre.  
  
"Etienne, you had a better view than the rest of us," Courfeyrac said quietly. Combeferre nodded slowly, gathering his thoughts, before turning to Claude.  
  
"Enjolras was speaking to a group of students outside in the Place Saint Michel. He was starting to draw followers, and the crowd was growing. It looked as if we'd gain at least a hundred new men for the Republic." He smiled briefly, remembering the hope he'd felt. His smile faltered as he continued. "But the crowd grew too fast, it started to become a riot. The gendarmes were called in to keep order. One of them saw Enjolras on the table and assumed he was the cause of the outbreak. He took aim at him, intending to stop the riot by destroying its source. None of us realized what was happening until Grantaire--" He paused, closing his eyes. "Until we heard the shot. I looked over and saw Grantaire on the table, in front of Enjolras." He gritted his teeth. "He never shouted a warning, never tried to let us know what was happening. Thought he could protect Enjolras on his own. Damned fool," he muttered quietly. There was no fire or malice in his voice; only a tinge of worry for his friend. Combeferre swallowed and continued. "We brought him to Musain because it was the closest place. The gendarmes couldn't follow, there were too many other people in the street. Joly looked at him immediately and took him into the back room. It was only a few minutes after when he emerged again, already bloody, and asked for someone to fetch you." He trailed off. Claude sat in silence for a few moments, her shock slowly giving way to a hot fury.  
  
"Do you mean to tell me," she started slowly, "that Grantaire almost died today because he kept Enjolras from being shot by a gendarme? He let himself be shot for him?" Without waiting for an answer, she rose, heading for the door.  
  
"Claude, what are you doing?" Jehan called after her.  
  
"I'm going to bring that damned statue down from his marble pedestal if it kills him," she said furiously as she stalked out.  
  
The others looked at each other.   
  
"Want to go after her?" Courfeyrac asked. Jehan and Feuilly rose but were halted with a gesture. They looked at Combeferre in surprise. His expression was dark as he shook his head.  
  
"Don't," he said quietly. "Let her go. It's time Enjolras learns--" He cut himself off. Rising, he started for the back room. The others followed him silently, not glancing at the door again. Claude would bring Enjolras back, if anyone could.  
  
  
Claudette Prouvaire went through the dark streets outside of Musain, searching for Marcelin Enjolras. She didn't heed the cold; her anger kept her warm enough. She instinctively went to the square where the rally had been held today, knowing she'd find her quarry there.  
  
Her instincts had been right. Enjolras stood at the edge of the square, his arms folded, motionless as a statue. The sight of him cooled her anger to a sharp and cutting fury. She strode up to him quietly. He was at least a foot taller than she was, but that had never intimidated her. She glared up at him quietly, waiting for him to notice her.  
  
Eventually he looked down, a trace of annoyance in his eyes. "Yes mam'selle?" he asked coolly. "Did you wish to speak to me? If so, do it quickly. I have other things to do."  
  
Claude answered equally coolly. "A fine thanks for someone who just saved your friend's life." He flinched again and looked away angrily.  
  
"Grantaire is not my 'friend.' He never has been, and will not be. He is a drunkard, and a skeptic, worthless to the Republic. I didn't ask him to do something so stupid, almost get himself killed. Why should I care about him? He means nothing to me."  
  
"I don't believe you."  
  
"Why should I care if you believe me or not?" he asked, exasperated. "You don't have to believe me, because I believe it myself, and that's enough."  
  
"I don't believe you." Her cool voice cut like a razor. She stepped forward. "I don't believe you, and I don't think you believe yourself. You refuse to believe that Grantaire means more to you than you want him to." Her eyes narrowed. "I see how you treat him. How you kick him away, keep him from getting close. But he's always there, always in the background, waiting to make a comment, ask a question, anything to attract your attention. Now tell me, golden-haired Fearless Leader..." She took a step back, looking up at him with cold fury in her eyes. "If he were gone, who would question you? Rather, who would make you question yourself? That could very well have been you on that table in the back room! You're not immortal, Enjolras, no matter how much Grantaire considers you to be."   
  
He looked down at her, a trace of cold anger reflected in his clear blue eyes. "Mademoiselle Prouvaire. I have never considered myself, as you put it, 'immortal,' nor do I now." The emotionless mask was back in place. "And what that drunkard considers me to be concerns me no more than anything else he thinks, says, or does." A stinging pain across his face, accompanied by the sharp sound of a slap, answered him. He started, jerking backward in shock. Had she just hit him? He looked down at her angrily, ready to rebuke her, but her cold gaze made him pause. Instead, he turned away, ignoring the still-stinging handmark on his face. She stared at him in silence for a moment, then shook her head. "Why am I even bothering? I might as well be talking to marble." She turned away to leave, then glanced over her shoulder. "Perhaps I am," she added quietly, the sound carrying over the still air of the empty street. She started away but paused halfway across the square, looking down at something in the street. She crouched; he saw her examining something on the ground with a stricken expression before she stood again and walked away stiffly.   
  
Enjolras looked after her, unmoving and emotionless. Only after she'd disappeared into Musain did he wince slightly and put a hand up to his cheek. He froze; it was wet. Trembling very gently, he took away his hand and looked at his now red fingers. Blood. Grantaire's blood. He looked down at himself; her red-stained hand had scattered tiny droplets, scarlet against his white shirt. A drop of rain spattered next to him, followed by another, but Enjolras didn't notice. His attention was fixed on the spot where Claude had paused. His feet had transported him without his even being aware of it.   
Rain fell faster; the air shivered with a chill that nearly matched the one Enjolras felt as he stared at the pool of blood that remained in the street. That could-no. That would have been his blood if it weren't for Grantaire. Enjolras closed his eyes, remembering the scene from earlier that day.  
  
  
"The people must be freed, and we will free them! Vive le Republique!" The ringing words died away, their echo drowned in the wave of cheers that followed the speech. Enjolras drew breath, the excitement of the crowd energizing him anew. The afternoon had started off slowly, with only a few passers-by pausing a moment to listen to the tall, slim student speaking in front of a café. Eventually however, Enjolras' words of freedom and opportunities for the future landed on more willing ears. A crowd began to gather, listening first quietly, then with a growing fervor as his speech grew more intense. Finally, the crowd had become so large and so eager to listen, he'd been forced to climb onto a table in order for his words to reach the fringes of the crowd.  
  
He heard voices crying out for revolution, overthrowing the government, an émeute. From below, on the ground, the smiling face of Combeferre looked up at him, flushed with excitement. He opened his mouth to speak.  
  
"Enjolras!" The voice hadn't been Combeferre's, he was sure of that. It was deeper, more gravelly. Fearful. Why would Combeferre be afraid?  
  
Before Enjolras had time to recognize the odd voice, he found himself on his back, half-hanging off the table, with-Grantaire!?-lying on top of him, trying to hold him down. He struggled mightily against the drunkard and started to push him away when Grantaire suddenly went stiff, gasping. The echo of the gunshot off the buildings cut through the angry crowd like a knife.  
  
Grantaire lay heavily on top of him, his hands tightening painfully on Enjolras' arms. Enjolras was about to shove him off when he caught sight of his eyes. They were clear, not fogged over by drunkenness, and fixed on his. He heard Grantaire's voice, ragged with pain and more intense than Enjolras had ever heard it.  
  
"Please...have to be strong, can't waste yourself...too important, to--" The rest of the phrase was lost as the pain of the gunshot wound finally drove Grantaire into unconsciousness. His hands relaxed and Enjolras struggled out from under him, stunned. He watched, unable to move, as Combeferre shouted to the others to help him get Grantaire off the street. The table was carried away, Grantaire's limp and pale form draped across it like a discarded rag doll. Joly was shouting instructions to them, but to Enjolras they sounded like gibberish. He felt a hand on his shoulder, distantly heard a voice speaking his name. An arm grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. He focused on Courfeyrac.  
  
"-to get out of here!" he was saying. "The gendarmes didn't get a good look at you, but we have to go, they'll be over here any minute!" He stared at Courfeyrac blankly for a moment, then nodded.  
  
"Of course," he replied, instantly the leader again. He strode away, trailed by Courfeyrac, leaving behind a riot which was swiftly being quelled by the gendarmes. The people scattered, returning to their homes. By the next day, all of Enjolras' inspiring words would be no more than a memory...  
  
  
The sound of thunder crashing through the deserted, rainy streets jolted Enjolras back to the present. He opened his eyes and looked at the red puddle in the street as it started to flow, carried by rainwater. The red trail moved past him, mocking him, on its way to the river. Anger, disbelief, denial conflicted within him as he watched it. Whirling, he half-ran out of the square, away from the bloodstained reminder of Grantaire's sacrifice. He slowed to a walk, not noticing or caring where he was headed. The rain beat down, soaking him thoroughly, but he didn't notice.  
  
"Why did he do it?" he asked himself angrily. "What could have possessed him? Bastard, what was the purpose?" He knew what the purpose had been, of course. Grantaire had saved his life, but for what reason?   
  
He cares about you. Another voice spoke up quietly in his mind. He's always cared about what happens to you, you've just never noticed.  
  
"No he doesn't," Enjolras answered himself angrily. "He couldn't. He's always so insulting, skeptical about everything I say. I hate him."  
  
It doesn't matter if you hate him. He does care about you, and you know it. You're just too stubborn to admit it.  
  
"He's the stubborn one! He never goes away, he's always there in that corner surrounded by bottles, just waiting for me to slip up so he can comment about it!"   
  
Yes, he is always there. And if he weren't, there would be something amiss. Something that wasn't quite right. You'd be incomplete. Don't try to deny it, you're only lying to yourself.  
  
Enjolras stopped dead. He ignored the rain cascading around him as it finally dawned. He'd always had the power to get rid of Grantaire for good. If he'd truly wanted to, somehow he could have made Grantaire leave. Somehow, there would have been a way. If he'd honestly wanted to.  
  
But you didn't want to, did you?  
  
He shook his head slowly. Grantaire was cynical, apathetic, bitter...incapable of believing in anything besides wine and worldly pleasures. Nearly always drunk and raving or slumped at a table, infecting the others around him with his uncaring outlook. He was also the only one who questioned Enjolras. The only one who, as Claude had said, made him question himself. Without Grantaire, who was there to keep him grounded? To keep him from feeling, as he had today, immortal? He shuddered unconsciously, remembering how close he'd come to being shot. The thought suddenly reminded him of Grantaire, in Musain, suffering on account of him. Perhaps even dying. On account of him.  
  
Without another thought, he turned and headed back toward the café. His mind was made up. He still didn't like Grantaire, but he'd be damned if he was going to let him die. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction.  
  
The group of students had broken up into a more relaxed group after the   
news that Grantaire would live. Combeferre looked up from his discussion with Courfeyrac and perceived Enjolras. Rising, he went over.  
  
"Marcelin?" he asked in a low voice. Enjolras nodded quietly. Combeferre may have smiled a bit. "He's in there," he said softly, gesturing to the back room. Enjolras wasted no more time as he went through.  
  
Claude was there, gently examining Grantaire's injury. He was awake, but his eyes were empty as he stared at the ceiling. He didn't respond to Claude's statements, didn't react at all. Only the rise and fall of his chest, and his slight twitchings of pain indicated that he was still alive.  
  
Claude looked up and saw Enjolras. Her eyes narrowed and she was on the verge of saying something when she paused and looked down at Grantaire.  
  
"I'll be back later, Francois," she said softly. "You're going to be fine," she added, squeezing his hand gently. With a last appraising look at Enjolras, she departed.  
  
Enjolras took a deep breath and stepped forward into the candlelight. Grantaire's eyes caught the movement and he started, only to gasp with pain and lean back.  
  
"So, bright angel...you're still living." The normally sarcastic statement seemed forced. Ordinarily, Enjolras would have flared at the mocking barb, but not tonight.  
  
"Still living-thanks to you," he answered quietly. Grantaire looked up at him, surprised. Never in his life had Enjolras spoken a kind word to him, let alone thanked him for anything. He wasn't entirely sure how to react.  
  
"Don't mention it," he said faintly, breathing sharply as a new wave of pain buffeted him. Enjolras shook his head swiftly.  
  
"I have to mention it. My God Grantaire, you saved my life. I would have been dead today if it weren't for you." He sat next to the table in the chair Joly had recently vacated. A thousand different things flew through his mind, but none of them seemed to fit. He'd never been in this situation before; he'd never even dreamed he would be in this situation. Owing his life to Grantaire? Was it even possible?   
  
Apparently so.  
  
"Grantaire, I--" He frowned. He didn't like not knowing what to say. Grantaire, as if sensing his indecision, smiled sardonically.  
  
"You don't...have to thank me. Someone else...would have done the same thing." Haltingly.  
  
"But 'someone else' didn't. You did, and-" He trailed off. Grantaire looked up at him quietly, not calculating or expectant. Simply looking, as if that were enough.   
  
Enjolras couldn't bear to look at that frank gaze any longer. He cleared his throat. "So...thank you. For-thank you." He stood, preparing to leave.   
  
Grantaire regarded him silently, then nodded once, for a moment looking far older than his twenty-six years. "You're welcome," he answered, and left it at that.  
  
Enjolras walked to the door and paused, glancing back. He opened his mouth to say something, but after a moment closed it soundlessly and left.   
  
Grantaire leaned his head back, deep in thought. The pain from his wound faded as he smiled in the dimness. It hadn't been anything more than a thank-you, but it was enough.  



End file.
